Need&Love in 221 Words
by Svenja The Strange
Summary: Two little 221 word stories about how Sherlock needs John & John loves Sherlock. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Note: **just two tiny pieces I came up with whilekilling (much, much, much too much) time on Tumblr. 221 words about Need and Love.

**Need **

"I need you." whispers Sherlock.

The weight of the words is apparent only to the truly inaugurated, the person in the know. Only to someone who knows the man behind the said. Only to John. He hears not just the naked sound of the words uttered and the terms used. He does not mistake the statement for a confession of love. This is not what it means, not _all_ it means. No, John understands the planet-heavy meaning behind the audible. It is the addict speaking - With him the _need_ is a physical necessity. It means: you are something I can't exist without. I _need_ you – like oxygen, like water, like the blood in my veins. In order to make myself work I _need _you. It is the pragmatist talking –the need is a specific requirement. For _using_ John. I _need_ you – in order to achieve a certain goal, to fulfill a specific purpose: Living.

With Sherlock these words are literal. They are to be defined in the most basic way. They do not refer to the desirable but to the essential. I_ need_ you. _Need_.

The statement does not express a sentiment, but a fact. You do not have to love in order to _need_. With Sherlock "I _love_ you" is just a part of this need. Just the beginning.

**Love **

"That was amazing. _You're_ amazing. I love you!"

The words escape John's mouth in the excitement over a brilliant deduction before he can stop to think about the depths of their meaning, before he can realise what they are. A confession. _The_ confession.

It has been lurking on the tip of his tongue like a jack in the box for far too long.

The force of its extent reaches into the core of John being moments later in the taut bow string of a silence that follows. Grey green eyes stare unblinking, searching, _deducing _into his own. A pouty mouth opens as if to speak, a pink tongue hesitates behind slightly parted lips. John's heart lies on this tongue now, ready to be destroyed in so many possible ways. Chewed up, swallowed whole, spit out.

Loving this man is shedding your armor and handing him a spear. It is bathing in gasoline and giving him a box of matches. Yes, love is inflammable: a chemical defect. But loving this man also gives existence a meaning. Because what other meaning for existing could there be if not to love? To love: because and despite and although.

"I know."

The smile says more than any verbal reply could ever have. _I love you too_. It doesn't need to be uttered to be true.


	2. Sweet NothingOpen Your Eyes

**Sweet Nothing **

They all thought it John knew, they always did. And how could they not? How assume anything else? Sherlock was constantly giving them reason to believe, possibilities to witness. In front of everyone else Sherlock Holmes seemed to be giving John Watson absolutely nothing.

"John, pass me my phone."

Well, that was _something_: Orders, which were _requesting _rather than giving. Requesting John's assistance, his presence, his attention, his time. Yes, he must be looking like as a lap dog running after Sherlock at his every word and whimsical idea just to have his intelligence insulted, unknowingly be used as guinea pig in some unsavoury experiment or get abandoned in a dubious part of town. People could see it, the _nothing_ Sherlock was giving him. They wondered and shook their heads. Sometimes, he knew, they talked about it behind his back - they couldn't understand how John bore it so patiently, how he dealt with the nothing he got in return.

They talked because they didn't get it. No one but John and Sherlock truly got it, never would. Or could. What John got in return was the sweetest "nothing": it was everything. No politeness or thoughtfulness, but what did that mean compared to what Sherlock had restored to Johns life? Laughter, joy, peace of the heart, _meaning_. All that truly mattered.

**Open Your Eyes **

Red on white. Half of Sherlock's shirt is soaked with blood, his head rolls back nervelessly.

"Don't do this to me. Not again." The words are repeating in Johns head. He has lost him before and he knows with the certainty of death: _Not again_. If Sherlock goes, this time John will follow.

"Open your eyes!" John bawls at the limp body. Red on white, almost no white left now. He wants to grab that fragile pile of bony limps and shake the life back into it until it kicks and fights in vibrant defiance. Perhaps even screams at John.

If only his eyes would open. If only those pale lids would retract over the jade coloured irises, the secret windows to Sherlock's softer inside. If only they would open and the pupils would shrink to tiny black dots under the bright neon light of the ambulance. His eyes - they always give him away. If they would only open, then John would know if Sherlock will be alright.

As the electricity of the defibrillator hits Sherlock's body they do, searching for Johns. His mercurial glance fixes on John and calms.

_Saved_. A connection, a constant, a lifebelt to cling to while darkness is threatening to pull him down. Looking into each other's eyes – all it ever took to be saved.


End file.
